Bucket List in Paris
by chezchuckles
Summary: By cartographical, Sandiane Carter, and chezchuckles. 19. Live for a year in Paris. Kate says, No, only a month, Castle. This is what Bucket List version of Caskett did over the summer hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

**Bucket List_ in Paris_**

* * *

co-written by** cartographical, Sandiane Carter, **and** chezchuckles**

* * *

_19. Spend a year in Paris. (Sorry, Castle - is a month okay?)_

* * *

Kate Beckett stretches in bed, eyes closed, nearly humming. A yawn erupts instead, pulling her body taut and long, joints popping.

Someone laughs.

Him, of course.

"Hush," she murmurs, slowly opening her eyes. He's faking sleep, smile flickering the edges of his lips. She curls onto her side, draws her knee up against his thigh. "You have no room to laugh, old man."

"Misery loves company."

She smirks and drops a kiss on him, wherever it manages to land - oh, his jaw, that's nice, the rough burn of his stubble.

"I'm going for coffee and a croissant. You coming?"

"No."

"Riiiick."

"No. Can't cajole me out of a warm bed at only - gasp - Beckett! It's seven in the morning! In Paris!"

"Which part deserves the gasp? All of it? You are certainly melodramatic in the morning."

She slides her knee over his hips, comes up to sit over him. His eyes dart to hers, hot and awake, so very awake. She rocks back.

"That is naughty," he groans out, raising his knees suddenly to spill her forward onto his chest.

She grins at him, cranes her neck to get at his mouth, a soft and pillowed kiss that tastes of stale coffee, morning breath, rich and velvet Castle. Mmmm...

"Can't make those noises at me, Beckett. Not if you want your breakfast any time soon."

"Who said anything about soon?" she whispers.

And then she licks the sweet spot at the corner of his mouth, takes his lip between her teeth, gives a throaty, breathless moan.

His hips jerk in response, and then suddenly he's rolling them so he's on top, staring down at her - all dark eyes and intensity. Dangerous.

The moan gets him every time.

* * *

"If they're out of _pains au chocolat_," she threatens, tugging on his arm to make him move a little faster down the stairs of their walk-up.

She glances over to see him narrow his eyes, affronted. "In no possible universe can this delay be construed as my fault."

"I wasn't the one who decided to get - creative," she says, twisting back again, smiling at the half-leering, half-nostalgic expression that's lighting up his eyes.

"I don't remember you complaining."

She swallows, caught for a heartbeat in the memories of the slick of his skin against hers, the trip of his tongue along her thigh, the heat of his body below her and the thin warmth of the just-risen sun on her shoulders.

"You will if I don't get my coffee," she murmurs, but he must hear the husk in her voice, because they hit the landing and his fingers are settling at her hip and he's twisting her so her back hits the wall. He ducks his head, sweeps his lips gently against hers.

"Breakfast," she murmurs.

"We're in Paris, Beckett. The city of lights. The city of love." He emphasizes the last word by inching his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, fluttering along the soft skin at the bottom of her stomach.

She can't help her sigh as she arcs herself into him, leans forward, stops when her lips are just against his and whispers softly, "It's going to be the city of pain and certain death if you don't feed me breakfast."

* * *

She makes him laugh. It's always been like that - he loves that side to her, the sharp, biting side that won't take any crap, especially not from him - and her comment about the city of pain and death just gets his mind working, sparking pictures of Paris taken over by zombies, the blood-thirsty creatures crawling out of the catacombs. It ruins all his masterful seduction, because he just can't stop snickering.

Kate smacks his shoulder, eyes narrowed around the smile that hovers at her lips; he grabs her wrist and brushes his thumb to it, slow, lazy circles.

"Not sure what's so funny about me starving, Castle," she points out, but she's already softening, the arch of her eyebrow short-lived.

He shakes his head, a little breathless, caught up in it - how beautiful she looks, her eyes so tender, so very happy.

He makes her happy.

"Nothing funny about you starving," he says solemnly, leans in to steal another kiss, absorbing her spicy smell as he does. "So let's go get those chocolate croissants."

His hands linger at her waist still, not quite convinced they want to move; Kate smiles against his mouth, hums, and pushes on his chest.

"They're not croissants, Castle."

"Hmm, what?" He's utterly distracted by the way her fingers fly to the strap of her tank top, secure it back into place; he doesn't remember it sliding down to begin with, but now he wants nothing more than for it to happen again.

"_Pain au chocolat_. That's what I want. They don't make chocolate croissants here; croissants are plain or butter. Keep up, Rick. We've been here for three days, and you can't even name the food you've been having for breakfast?"

So hot.

Seriously. He's staring at the line of her neck, and she talks to him about language and how he's not using the appropriate word?

Castle makes a snap decision, steps away from her, and turns to make his way back to the bedroom. It's a ruse, but he doesn't even care. He'll pay for it later, but he seriously needs her again.

"Castle?"

Oh. Right. How to get her to step into their room again?

"I forgot something," he says, pausing long enough to look back at her. "In the bedroom. You can wait for me here if you want."

But of course she follows. He might not be the manipulative sort, generally speaking, but he does know Kate well enough to anticipate her responses.

Well. Most of the time, anyway.

He swings the door open and makes his way to the open mouth of his suitcase, kneels down to rummage through it; he's watching her from the corner of his eye, and when she's stepped inside, leaned against the wall, he gets up again.

Kate shoots him a confused look when she sees him empty-handed, but before she has time to say anything, he's shut the door and pinned her to the wall in one smooth move, his mouth instinctively finding that soft, vulnerable spot on her neck.

She gasps in surprise, her hips rolling against his - oh, so good how she does that - and when her hands come up, it's so her fingers can thread through his hair.

"Do you have any idea," he breathes, kissing his way up to her ear, delighting in the way she squirms against him, "how hot it is when you do that?"

"Do-" she makes this strangled, wanting sound that completely undoes him, "-do what?"

"Correct my language," he says, sliding a knee between her thighs (he loves it when she wears skirts, because it's so un-Beckett-like, and because it makes it so easy for him).

Her fingers are working at his shirt and he lets them, too happy to get the fabric off. Why do they even bother getting dressed?

It's stupid.

"Anytime," Kate drops, her voice halted, breathless, beautiful.

He's completely lost the thread of their conversation, if there was one, but he hauls her against him, her top so thin that she's almost naked, her body so tense and ready, and yeah, yeah, Kate-

Anytime.

* * *

"You forgot something," she huffs into his hair, stroking her fingers along his scalp.

"Pardon my French," he murmurs, laughing to himself.

Kate slides a sweaty thigh along his, tries to pry herself away from him. He grumbles at her, tightening his arms around her, hauling her back.

"I gotta pee, Castle. Let me go."

He growls and offers a rough and sloppy kiss of his lips before he tries to dump her off the bed. She catches herself with a laugh, shoves on his shoulder as she walks away.

For a second, she debates shutting the door, then sighs and leaves it open. He might read too much into a shut door; he does stupid stuff like that. He's so the girl.

She stands naked in front of the tiny window in the bathroom; Castle found this old home with rooms to rent for the month, so everything is wood, everything creaks and moans in time with them.

She presses her fingers to the glass, feels the slight chill in the air; it snaps her out of the haze of love and reminds her why she's in here. Kate uses the bathroom, washes her hands, runs her damp fingers through her hair. Make-up is smudged, practically gone, but she doesn't even care. She no longer looks tired without the eyeliner, doesn't look pale and half-formed without the mascara and eyeshadow and blush. Not any more.

A smile pressed into her lips, Kate turns and finds him lying on his stomach, watching her from the bed, his eyes sleepy but studying, cheek mashed against the thin pillow. He holds out his hand and curls his fingers at her, beckoning, and she comes, can't resist the lure of him in bed.

He brushes at her hip before snagging her, dragging her down. She lands on all fours over him, a knee at his thigh that she quickly shifts, but he'll be bruised. Kate leans down, her hair spilling on his back, and lays her open mouth to his shoulder, breathing hotly against him, then slides a hand up his side.

He turns onto his back, grinning at her, hands coming up to tangle in her hair, cup her cheeks. "I really should feed you," he whispers, eyes that relaxed and humming blue.

"You should," she agrees, dips her head to press her lips to the scar above his eyebrow, the dent of flesh at his forehead. She gets her teeth at it, makes him whine low in his throat. The animal noises make her shiver, make her whole body flush.

He angles her head away, tugs her down to lie beside him, using legs and arms to keep her from rising up over him again. She frowns, gets a hand between them, but he's laughing and jerking back.

"Pace yourself, Kate. We have a month."

"Not enough time," she says slyly. "For all the things I want to do to you."

He huffs out a laugh that sounds choked and she grins. But he shakes his head at her.

"You need food. Hell, I need food, if this is what the rest of the month is going to look like."

She sighs, but yeah. Her stomach is eating itself with hunger and her caffeine headache has blossomed.

"If I get dressed, I'm dressed for good, Richard Castle."

He sighs in return. "I can accept those terms."


	2. Chapter 2

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

Castle beams at her over the rim of his _café crème_. "We survived our first international fight," he says, jubilant. "I can't wait until tonight when we have absolutely mind blowing make u—" There's a sudden sting on the back of his hand where, he suddenly realizes, she's flicked him with her index finger. Hard. Luckily, Richard Castle is not one to take a hint. "This afternoon, then?"

She rolls her eyes, affectionately, he determines. "It's already this afternoon."

"I really think there could not have been a more excellent use of our time."

She tilts her head, considering. They're in Paris, they're in Paris sitting at a wrought-iron table on the side of an absolutely picturesque cobblestone street with the summer sun shining down on them, but he can't seem to let his eyes wander over anything but her face, her jaw soft and relaxed, her eyes light and clear. "We're going to need to come up with some coping strategies…" she trails off to take a long sip of her coffee.

"If we're going to stay in bed until we both have the temperament of rabid wolves?"

Her lips twitch up and her eyes crinkle in a smile. "Maybe you should just learn to settle for something less than 'the most exquisite croissant to ever grace mankind's lips' and 'the most heavenly espresso to ever scald mankind's throat' when those two places are fifteen blocks apart and it's after twelve thirty."

He can't help but capitulate when she's smiling at him like that. "Duly noted," he says, reaching out, mapping the veins of her hand with his index finger. "But, admit it, that croiss – _pain au chocolate_," he quickly corrects, "I heard the noises you made when you ate it."

"I did not make noises," she says, glaring full-throttle at him, but she doesn't draw her hand away from where his finger skitters absent patterns over her knuckles.

He certainly didn't mention it at the time, didn't want to call attention to the low, appreciative vibration that rumbled through her throat when she took her first bite of the pastry, but it had been an almost unwinnable struggle to keep his hands to himself as she hummed her way down the sidewalk, skirt brushing against her thighs, tank top clinging to her chest, holding her breakfast reverently in one hand. Only the knowledge that they needed to make it to the coffee as quickly as humanly possible kept him moving forward, and even then he stumbled twice over the cobblestones as he crossed the street and barely remembered to properly appreciate his own pastry, he was so distracted by her.

"Whatever you say," he says, trying to be glib in the face of her stern glare.

She shakes her head, lets her hand bump up into his, their fingers tripping over each other. "At any rate," she finally says, after their hands resolve into a tangle in the middle of the table, "I would hardly qualify this morning as our first international fight."

He stills for a beat, reconsidering. "Fight might have been an overzealous word. Squabble? Scuffle? Skirmish?"

"Stop being alliterative." She crosses her legs, the toe of her shoe bumping up against his shin. After the morning they've had, there's no excuse for the shiver that runs through him, but that doesn't stop it. "I can't handle that many hard consonants when I haven't finished my caffeine."

He presses his lips together, can't stop the grin. "Anything to get you to utter the phrase hard consonant. And speaking of –"

She's smiling, brilliantly, blindingly, as she shakes her head at him. "We're dressed for good, remember?"

"Did I ever actually agree to that?"

She nudges his shin with her toe, on purpose, judging by the stern pressure. "Yes. Something about 'I can agree to those terms,' I seem to recall."

He sighs woefully. "There are so many upsides to dating gorgeous detectives, but their razor-sharp memories aren't always one of them."

She runs her thumb along the back of his hand. "You're the one with Paris on his bucket list," she says. "We should probably try to do something outside the confines of our bedroom."

He scrunches his nose. "None of it's as fun as what we can do in the bedroom, though," he says, and then his mind's tripping down a tangent again, her legs tangled in their cool white sheets, her chest heaving into his, her hands skirting down the plane of his abdomen.

"Hey, Castle," she says, tightening her fingers around his. He realizes he's been moving his index finger in firm, rhythmic circles over the ridge of her metacarpal. There's a slight flush rising up her throat and a hitch to her breath that wasn't there a minute ago. "Enjoy your coffee," she says, her voice half a key lower than it usually is.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, taking an exaggerated sip, but he can't quite still his fingers, can't, won't, will never be able to still the kinetic energy crackling between them.

* * *

She manages to drag him inside Notre-Dame, thoroughly ignoring his complaints about his feet hurting, about the weather being too hot, about the place being a holy sanctuary and really, Beckett, _there's nothing holy about what I wanna do to you_.

She even manages to ignore the dangerous flicker of arousal that dances through her at his words.

There's a small line in front of the cathedral; Kate stills behind a couple of Japanese people, the wife's face strained into a bright smile as she poses for her husband's camera. Castle's hands hover at Beckett's waist, a little too intent, and she swats them away.

"Just look at it," she says, nodding towards the gorgeous façade, the pointed arches, the million little details sculpted in the stone - saints and flowers and gargoyles, minutious scenes from the Bible. It takes her breath away.

Rick's arms come to circle her waist, but she leaves him be this time because she can tell his attention has shifted, that he's looking at the same thing she is.

"It's beautiful," he murmurs, soft, admiring voice at her ear, and she knows he's doing it on purpose, leaving his words wide open to interpretation, making it sound like maybe he's only talking about her. About the two of them, here in Paris, together.

She knows it and still her heart flutters, still her lips curl into a bright, spontaneous smile that can't be helped.

The flow of people leaving the cathedral is pretty regular, and once an incredibly bored-looking security guy has given her purse a cursory look and cleared them, they're allowed inside.

That kind of security surely isn't going to discourage a determined bomber, Kate thinks, but she's on vacation and it's not her job, so she puts it aside, lets the quiet beauty of the cathedral sweep over her.

She's been inside Notre-Dame before, and she knows Castle has too, but there's something humbling, something surreal to being here with him, after everything - not just the bombs and the bullets, but the misunderstandings and the missed opportunities.

They made it. It stuns her.

She crushes his fingers with hers in a poor attempt at communicating it, the joy and the awe that stretch her heart, threaten to make it tear open. Her eyes turn to his and the look on his face is a mirror of what she feels, the overwhelmed happiness, the dazzled gratitude.

She sways with it, catches herself on his shoulder; she's lifting on her tiptoes to brush their mouths together when a voice behind them grumbles about blocking the way.

Kate blushes, rocks back on her heels; their hands are still laced together and Castle comes with her, tender blue eyes, lips parted in a silent laugh. He pushes her out of the way, towards one of the chapels on the side; there's already a group of tourists massed against the railing to peer at the white marble statues, but he doesn't even try to get in close. He hangs back with her.

When the group has passed them by, he wraps both arms around her, presses her into his chest, his warm breath skirting her temple, and he whispers, "I love being here with you."

Her heart stutters; her fingers fist over his shirt as she rests her nose to the underside of his jaw, her flat summer shoes not allowing for more.

She relaxes, slowly, and grins into his skin, kisses the hollow of his neck with great care before pushing herself off his chest.

So he can see the teasing and the truth in her eyes.

"And I just love you, Castle."

* * *

Rick is absorbed by a large sign that explains the different stages of the building's construction, and seriously, the whole thing blows his mind. The first stone was laid in 1163 (1163!), and from what he understands, it took four different builders to bring the cathedral to something like completion in 1250.

That's. A century.

A century.

And it wasn't over then, not by a long shot; the kings followed one after another but people kept working at the cathedral, kept changing things and thinking how it could be improved, be made even more beautiful, more impressive.

Castle's starting to understand why Ken Follett felt the need to write a book about the whole process - it's utterly fascinating, the amount of work that went into such an edifice. And not just the amount either, but the meticulousness, the dedication of these minds and hands working together towards a common goal, even if there was little chance for them to ever live long enough to see the finished product...

Yeah. It's - humbling. It is.

He's glad Kate made them get out of bed.

Castle has always been secretly amused at people who sigh wistfully and say, "They don't make things like this anymore," but for the first time, he realizes that there's truth to the adage. Nothing is made like this anymore. And is this cathedral so much more impressive because the intent behind it was religious? Today, he thinks that kind of century-long dedication and commitment and fervor might be regarded suspiciously, or at the very least, with derision.

He's not so sure himself about religion - his mother isn't exactly a devout believer, and he never made a habit of going to church. Some of the private schools he attended had a more religious feel to them (chapel, and some Biblical studies), but for him, it never really took.

He finds himself playing devil's advocate when someone wants him to believe in something. Which is funny, since he's usually quite a trusting guy (Kate never lets him forget it), but he likes feeling he has a choice; he has to come to things of his own free will, with an open mind, an open heart. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to do that with God.

Still, as he finishes reading, his chest is filled with awe and admiration, his mind picturing the million workers who must have contributed to Notre-Dame, each with their own story, wife, kids, concerns; he's almost envious of their faith.

Then he catches sight of Kate from the corner of his eye, forgets all about those old stories, remembers only theirs, his and hers.

She's coming towards him, walking down the aisle (and yes, it's only a side aisle, and she's only wearing a light summer skirt with a purple top, but it's easy for his imagination to superimpose dream over reality, provide a white, gorgeously simple dress, a Jim Beckett with pride in his eyes-

"What're ya doing?" Kate asks, curling a hand at his waist as she smiles at him.

He makes himself backpedal - not quite there, Rick - and tries not to sound breathless as he answers, "Ah, just. Reading this."

She leans in and presses her mouth to the thin fabric of his shirt, right at his shoulder; he wishes it didn't make him ache so wildly for her naked, glorious body.

"Anything interesting?" she asks.

"Just." Ah, how could he possibly say this, make her understand? "I'm - amazed," he says carefully, weighing his words, "at how much people can accomplish when they set their minds to it. When they work together."

Kate turns her dark eyes to him, studies his face; the corner of her mouth lifts in a slow, knowing smile. She tiptoes closer and he holds his breath (he always has trouble dealing with her when she's so very near); but she only brushes her mouth to his ear and whispers, "Trying to send me a message, Castle?"

He laughs or chokes - something in between - and an elderly lady shoots him a strange look from across the aisle. He straightens, clears his throat.

"Maybe," he says, meeting Kate's laughing gaze.

She seems about to make a playful comment, but something stops her; her face grows serious, the smile still there, but quieter. More confident.

"There's no need," she murmurs, and his heart trips, collides into his lungs as he tries not to mistake her meaning.

"Come," she adds, gentle, nodding towards the back of the church and taking his hand. "Let's go see the treasury."

He doesn't say anything, just follows in wonder, certain that she can feel the wild pounding of his heart down to his clammy fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

"How much do you think a crown like this would run me?" he asks, staring at the delicate arches of some skillfully-constructed headgear. She walks up next to him, peers at the overblown, ornate contraption.

"Really?" she asks.

"I could pull it off," he says, then fixes on a diadem made of a light golden filigree. "Oh, we could get matching His and Hers!"

"No, Castle."

"We would be the only ones in Manhattan with them." He pauses, furrows his brow in consideration. "Probably."

"The day you catch me wearing a tiara…" she lets the threat trail off as she stops in front of an intricate cross.

"Then we can call you the Queen of th –"

"Don't say it, don't even think it."

He quiets but beams brightly at her before honing in on an elaborate chalice in the next case.

She moves to follow, but the glint of light catches sharp at the corner of her vision, stills her, has her fingers brushing along her lower back to check for a gun that of course isn't there, has her pulse punching hard up against her sternum, once, twice. Just a ray of sun through a clear panel of stained glass, refracting off a golden miter in an otherwise dim room. She exhales for a heartbeat longer than normal, forcing all the air out of her lungs before slowly dragging it back in.

It's nothing anyone would notice, just a quiet pause and a too-long breath, but when she glances to the side, Castle's eyes are roving her face. "Beckett," he murmurs, his voice a notch too low as it roughs over her name.

"It's fine – nothing," she says, because it is, it really is, they're in Paris, Paris, an ocean away from anything that should thump her heart so irregularly around her ribcage. This is the last place he should be looking at her like that, with the affection in his eyes shaded with worry.

"I'm sick of the treasury," he declares resoundingly, hooking his pinky around hers and tugging her out, forward and forward over centuries-old stones until they hit a shadowed, quiet section behind the choir.

A mass started while they were in the treasury; there's a low, steady song in Latin echoing from the altar and the musky scent of incense. She settles back against a column, lets the solid cadence of the strange music wash over her, leaches some of the quiet immobility from the cool stone at her shoulder.

Castle stands in front of her, his index finger just barely brushing the jut of her hipbone. "Stop looking so frustrated," he murmurs.

She didn't think she – but oh, there it is, her jaw contracted, teeth pressed so tightly against one another it hurts, now that she notices. She watches his eyes as she works through another deep breath, focuses on the feather-light warmth of his hand on her hip, channels the low singing and the cool cathedral air and the steady affirmation of his presence into her muscles, lets it work through them as she breathes to get it back, the boneless, loose-muscled luxury of their light-filled morning in bed.

"Sorry," she finally breathes after she's been tilted there for who knows how long, buoyed by the bulk of stone behind her and the quietness of Castle's presence in front.

"Don't be," he murmurs. He looks like he wants to say more - his throat works for a moment, but even now it can be difficult, even now it's sometimes hard for her to draw from his presence instead of draw away from it. And she knows he knows this.

"Okay," she says, "it's okay." She pushes herself away from the stone, stands up straight for a bit and then stops resisting the urge to cant into him. Her shoulder brushes his bicep and she feels him step a centimeter closer.

"Ice cream," he declares firmly as he starts to guide them around the rear of the choir, threading through the dark, quiet path next to the radiating chapels.

"We just ate," she says, letting herself get lost in it, the thin light that leaks through the lower stained glass windows of the ambulatory, the snatches between columns of the soaring pillars, the light-soaked expanse of the nave.

"It's ice cream, Beckett. It'll help us keep our strength up," he says, but there's a tenderness behind his leer that he's not doing a great job of hiding.

She nudges her shoulder into him. "If you're going to keep feeding me _pain au chocolat_ and ice cream you better have a comprehensive plan for how I'm going to work it off."

"Shhhhhh, not in a holy place," he stage whispers, sliding his hand over her lower back, resting it lightly above the flare of her tailbone as he ushers her out into the sun.

* * *

She's just moaned over her ice cream.

She wouldn't have even registered the tiny reverberation in the back of her throat, but the way he's looking at her, his eyes dark with wanting, she's pretty sure she was a little more vocal in her appreciation of their dessert than she'd ever allow herself to be in Manhattan. She decides to go with it, licks around the rim of the cone slowly, languorously, letting her eyes shutter half closed. The dark chocolate trickles down her throat, rich and cool, and she'd close her eyes if looking into his weren't so intoxicating.

He swallows convulsively, his own cone momentarily forgotten. She wants to look away, glance over at the hugely long line that winds to the green pavilion where they're slowly scooping ice cream into cones, glance down to the quiet, glinting Seine that winds thirty feet below them, but she can't, not when he's looking at her like he wants to lick the ice cream off her mouth, press her down against the flat, low wall and slowly start –

She blinks sharply, reminds herself for the twentieth time that they're dressed for the day because she said they were and she'll have lost every shred of her integrity if she gives in and drags him back to the apartment just because she can't handle watching him watching her eat an ice cream cone.

"Okay?" he asks. He must have noticed her go still. He's tilting his head at her, an earnestness to his gaze that was absent a moment ago.

"Yeah," she says, then, seeing his skeptical look, "really."

He's silent though, waiting on her, but she won't break. She won't. This isn't-

"Just trying to figure out a way around my pants," she says in a rush, then blinks and shuts her mouth. Did she just say that? _A way around my pants?_

"Are you - did you just-?" Castle shakes his head, sticks a finger in his ear and wiggles it around, looking confused. He gives an uncomfortable laugh. "You're gonna think I'm crazy. But I swear I just heard you say you were trying to get out of your pants."

"Um. No. Around them. Not off."

"Get off?" he gasps, his voice unnaturally high.

She averts her eyes from the lovely way his adam's apple bobs in his throat, the intense look in his eyes. "Good ice cream," she says inanely.

"No, no. Wait. Back to the pants."

Oh jeez. No. "Castle," she grits out, then raises the cone to her mouth and takes a huge bite - shockingly cold, creamy, a sugar rush that clears out her head. Good. Good. No need for silly plans orchestrating maneuvers intended to get them around the whole rule about being dressed for the day.

But if he-

No.

"I could take you over there," he murmurs, nodding his head. "Nothing really to help me, but I could slide my hand down-"

"No!" she gasps, something like panic clawing in her chest.

Who is she kidding? It's not panic. It's a brutal arousal that burns like ice.

"No?" he pouts.

She shakes her head. "Clothes are on for the day."

"Wasn't that exactly the rule we're getting around? If my hand-"

"No, no, no."

"It'd relax you," he says suddenly, his voice softer, pitched lower, his eyes intent on hers. "You always do better after hits like that if you can - release tension."

She swallows hard. "I just need more exercise. I think it comes over me like that when I haven't gotten in a thoroughly exhausting workout-"

"I'm offended. Completely offended. We've had three thoroughly exhausting workouts just today, Beckett-"

She laughs, slaps her hand against her mouth to trap it. No good encouraging him. "No. My bad. You're right. You've worked me out thoroughly, Castle."

Some of that old, familiar pride puffs his chest. "That's more like it."

"But I mean. I need to go for a six mile run or spar with a partner - and no, not like that."

He sighs. "You're telling me we're on vacation in Paris and you need a gym?"

She cracks a grin, reaches over to squeeze his hand. "Yes? Well, I don't need a gym. I could run the streets or even if we managed to get out of bed long enough to do a few hours walking around-"

"Actually," he says, cutting her off with a thunderstruck look on his face. "I think I know exactly what you need."

She groans and rolls her eyes. "Yes, fine, more of you. But I'm talking about-"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Beckett. My word, you are dirty today. I was saying, I know a place that's perfect. I know exactly where we need to go to wear you out."

"Back to the bedroom?" she answers, going for innocent but coming off delectable. If she says so herself.

"That first," he says darkly, his voice almost breaking with its depth. "And after that. I'm taking you out of the city."

What? "Where?"

"You'll see."

* * *

The car is surprisingly modest for Castle, more practical than showy: only two doors but a good-sized trunk, and the upholstery is comfortable without being too luxurious – Kate likes synthetic fabric better than leather, actually, because with the growing heat, leather would just stick to the part of her legs left bare by her rather revealing shorts.

Mmm, Castle's face when she walked out of the bathroom wearing those shorts was so worth it.

She had to skirt his wandering hands and push him to the side in order to get out of the bedroom, but this time she expected it, had her mind and body steeled against the seduction of his touch.

So they made it to the car rental on schedule – amazingly enough – and she's now sitting in the passenger seat because she still doesn't know where they're going. She suspects the only reason for him not telling her is that he gets to drive (since he's the only one who knows the way).

Fine. She'll let him play with the gearshift. For now.

France in July is hotter than she expected. It's only eleven, but the sun is already burning through the windows, bright light reflecting off the hood's metallic blue.

Ah, yeah.

Castle might have chosen a practical car, but he cannot go for boring either; their vehicle is a shiny, electric blue. A little blinding at first, but Kate can actually see good sides to it (namely, whenever they park the car, they'll have no difficulty finding it again).

She shifts a little, but there's no way of avoiding the sizzling rays of the sun.

"Hot?" Castle asks, firmly keeping his eyes on the road.

They're getting out of Paris now, and traffic is smoother here; more space between the cars, less angry honking. But Castle is obviously still wound up from their earlier scare (he took a bus lane that he wasn't supposed to and then almost ran into a bike in his haste to get out of it).

Maybe she should do something about it, help him forget all about crazy Parisian drivers.

"Aren't I always?" she says, dropping her voice to a low, seductive tone.

His eyes dart to her and then away; his mouth twists into a smirk, but she can see his throat work distinctly.

"And you're worried about the size of *my* ego?" he jokes.

Instead of answering, Kate stretches slowly, lazily, arching her back, and she lifts one long leg after the other, rests them on the dashboard.

Castle glances nervously at her, his fingers clenching on the wheel. She can think of a much better use for these large, dexterous hands of his-

"Kate," he says, voice squeaking slightly. "What are you doing?"

"You seem…tense," she answers, trailing the last word so he can't doubt her meaning. "Maybe I should help you relax, Castle."

He swallows, and from the look on his face, it's rather painful.

Up to this point, she's kept her hands to herself, folded them in her lap like a good girl, but not anymore. Now she slides her sly fingers over her thigh, across the gap between their seats, touches the cotton of his shorts.

He all but jumps, one of his hands abandoning its post and coming down to stay hers, warning in the tightness of his grip; she just smiles at him, dark and entrancing, mysterious - the way she knows he likes. Her thumb is at his wrist; she caresses the soft skin there, bare brushes that are far more tantalizing than full contact.

"Kate," he grunts, licking his lips. "Play nice. I'm driving."

"So?"

He shoots her a look, disapprobation flirting with arousal, like he can't make up his mind.

"Beckett. This is dangerous. Do you want to die in a stupid car wreck? In France, of all places?"

Laughter fills her chest; she struggles not to let it out.

"Live a little, Castle," she answers lightly, wriggling her hand out of his, splaying it on his thigh. "It's your bucket list, after all."

He looks at her again, then back at the road, clearly conflicted. Amazing. And this is the man who stole a police horse and rode it naked? Oh, this is just too good to be true.

"Seriously, Rick?" she can't help the question; it tumbles out of her lips without her permission. "You've never done this?"

He squirms, pouts. "No, I have. Of course I have. But only - when the car was parked. Not when it was-"

"Moving?" Damn, the humor is there, dancing in her voice. Nothing she can do about it. "I'm surprised, Castle. I thought you were the adventurous one. The risk-taker."

He presses his lips together, gives her a nasty look. "Quit sounding so pleased with yourself."

She grins and slowly, slowly trails her hand up his thigh. When she brushes him, he gasps, darkness suffusing his eyes, lips parting (oh, how badly she wants to kiss that open mouth) and she whispers, "Quit complaining."

* * *

His gaze flickers anxiously from sign to sign, but "Center Parcs" isn't written anywhere. Castle stops the car at a red light, tries to remember.

It's been a while since the last time, and he's only been there once.

The complex is a little way off the national road, that he's certain of. But how far off exactly? He has a vague memory of crossing a village, turning onto a road… He glances at his phone, but for some reason he doesn't have any network here (can you believe that? The French countryside is no better than Death Valley).

"Light's green," Kate tells him, and he switches back to first gear, presses the accelerator gently. He's rather proud of the way he's managed the gearshift so far; it's a challenge, and he can understand why some people find it so much more exciting than automatic cars.

"We lost, Castle?" Kate asks, and even though he's not looking at her, he can feel her smirking.

He's opening his mouth to answer when they reach the next crossroads, and yes – Center Parcs is indicated on his right. "Nope," he replies triumphantly, taking a smooth turn. "We're almost there, in fact. Getting antsy, Beckett?"

She gathers her dark hair to one side of her neck, rolls it into a twist, and he notices from the corner of his eye the sheen of sweat at her collarbone. Sexy.

"Not exactly antsy," she says. "Just want to get out of this car."

Mmm. Yeah. So does he.

"Not long now," he answers, as he catches sight of another sign. Good. He turns right again, recognizes the trees gathered at the curve of the road. Awesome.

He knows she's watching him but he can't help grinning, delighted as he is with his own brilliance. She's going to love it. She is.

"I'm a little scared now, Castle."

He turns joyful eyes to her, has to battle again the surreality of it all, the two of them in France, Kate Beckett willingly sitting in the car he rented, not even knowing their destination.

"Don't be," he assures her with a bright smile that still fails to express the inordinate happiness that pushes at his chest, strangles his heart. "I think you're gonna love it."

"That's precisely why I'm scared, Castle." But her eyes have softened at his words, and she looks so gorgeous, serene and hopeful – a woman in love.

Kate Beckett is in love with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

He can't help but be proud of how quickly he has them in the sauna.

They haven't explored the ample grounds of the resort, they've barely seen the colorful, light-strewn villa, they've hardly glanced at the expansive, wooden terrace. She hasn't even unpacked - usually her unconditional top priority upon entering any strange hotel room (he lives serially out of a suitcase, a habit borne of one-night book tour stays; he hangs his suits in a garment bag in the closet and leaves everything else rolled in lopsided stacks of fabric cubes, but she steadfastly empties her bags upon arrival no matter how excited she is to explore, no matter how exhausted she is from traveling).

But not today.

"I still don't understand why we're wearing towels," he says, scooting another inch closer to her and brushing his hand over her terrycloth-covered hip. They began a respectable distance from each other on the wooden bench of the sauna cabin that adjoins the second bedroom of their villa, but they've been shifting closer and closer, and now there's practically no distance between them at all.

She turns her head, levels him with a stare. She'd simply held the towel out to him on their way into the sauna, and she hadn't budged until he'd slung it low around his hips. "What would we be doing if we were naked right now, Castle?" she asks.

He rakes his eyes over her. Tiny droplets of sweat are just starting to pool just above her clavicles, already beginning to roll tantalizingly down her throat. A tendril of hair has escaped from her ponytail, curling damply over the line of her neck. Her legs stretch out long and lithe and soft just before him, and now that he's looking he can't help but trail a finger lightly up and down her quad. "Do I really need to explain that to you?" he asks roughly.

"Mmmmm," she hums low in her throat as his fingers fall in, start dancing patterns up her inner thigh. "Have you ever had sex in a sauna?"

"No, but I'm always open–" he starts, then catches the implication of her question. "Have you?" He can't stop the uncomfortable surge of lust and jealousy that sizzles through his blood. This woman is going to be the death of him.

She smiles enigmatically, her eyes dark. "It's hot in here, Castle." He creeps his hand higher up her thigh, revels in her indrawn breath.

"No argument there," he says. She leans against the back of the bench, closes her eyes, and he can't help but be transfixed by the sharp arc of her throat, by the slight sweat that glistens damply on her cheekbones.

Despite her comment about the inadvisability of saunas and heat and sex, she's not protesting his hand's slow journey up her leg.

"This place," she says, breath catching in her throat as his hand travels higher, finds the arc of her hipbone, "this place is amazing."

"You're amazing," he retorts, stroking his fingers gently over the soft skin of her lower abdomen.

"Really, Castle," she says, opening her eyes and tilting her head, pinning him with her languid gaze. "This is – this is a lot." Too much, he can tell she almost wants to say, but they've looped around and around that argument, and he knows she's trying, she's trying so hard to let him take care of her, she's letting him do so much more and letting him in so much further than she used to.

It catches him off-guard, his gratefulness to her, snarls in an embarrassing tangle in his throat that he needs to work through before he can talk. "You work hard," he says, swallows. "You deserve it." Sometimes it still catches both of them, he knows – that glint of light stalling her in the cathedral, and their first night in Paris he woke in the dark with his heart thumping erratically as he reached out through the shadows for her.

She lets her eyes slip shut, shakes her head slowly back and forth in protest or affirmation or both at once. "You, too," she rumbles, her voice catching as he slides his hand down. He can tell the heat of the room is leaching into her muscles - she's melting into the seat, loosening under his fingers even as her chest starts rising and falling more rapidly.

"You gonna pass out?" he asks suddenly. She's limp and boneless back against the bench, but his muscles are tightening, singing with her presence, and the heat's wrapping around his chest in a way that's pleasurable and suffocating all at once.

"Mm, probably not," she says, shifting her hips to press more firmly into his hand. "And you're choosing now to listen to my warnings?"

"Just wanted to prove to you that your towel plan was utterly thwartable." He shifts his hand in a slow circle, can't help it, even though he's still working through some lingering concerns about her remaining conscious.

"Thwartable's not – God, just -" she gulps as he circles his fingers again, "thwartable's not a word, Castle," she breathes.

"You're just mad that you were thwarted," he says, watching the sweat pool in the hollow between her collarbones. He stills.

"Seriously?" she bites out, slanting her eyes open.

He shifts forward, eyes raking over her face – her flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, parted lips. "I really don't want you passing out," he confesses.

She leans over, trails her nails down his sternum, over the plane of his abdomen. His muscles jump under her fingers, and she smiles, flicks her eyes over him. "Wanna try out the bed?"

* * *

"Ooh, crazy Bingo!"

"Castle," she laughs, coming up behind him at the kitchen bar and hooking an arm around his neck. "I'm not here for crazy Bingo. What else?"

"Bowling." He flaps the brochure in her face and she bats it away.

"Bowling and bingo sound kinda lame for Paris-"

He huffs at her, digging an elbow into her ribs. She backs up and moves around to his other side, her eyes attracted to a larger font farther down.

"Oh, this is it. Look. High Adventure Course. Wow-"

He's already whining. She elbows him back and scoots in between him and the bar half enclosing the kitchen, staking out space in front of the pamphlets about Center Parc.

"I wanna do this, Castle. This looks awesome. A ropes course-"

"This is strenuous stuff."

"Exactly," she says, turning her head to argue with him but catching the gleam in his eye. "Oh, you did this on purpose."

He lifts a shoulder as if to shrug, his mouth smirking.

"Is this what you and Alexis did?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I can't imagine she let you play bingo, no matter how crazy-"

"We didn't have time. The obstacle course is exhausting and you spend all day tied up in the trees."

Her heart is pounding, she wants it so much. "Yeah. Castle. Let's do this." She twists against the bar so that she can curl her arms against his stomach, tracing the line of his pecs under his shirt. She feels the skin shiver in response and grins.

"Right now?" he sighs. "Kate. It's - no. This is an all-day thing and we've already missed half our daylight."

"It stays light later."

"We'll ease our way into it. Tomorrow. Okay? Cause I promise you, you're gonna want all day."

She bites her bottom lip and grins up at him, coming onto her toes to kiss the ridge of his chin. "Yeah. This will be good. I need this."

"I need this," he murmurs, slipping both arms around her and drawing her away from the counter, into his hips.

"You need to take a break. I do too. We're gonna injure ourselves."

He laughs at her, but she slides her arms up around his neck and hoists herself up on the bar instead.

"I thought you said a break?"

"Plenty to do without - you know-"

"No. I don't know. Enlighten me."

She laughs into his mouth and nibbles at his bottom lip, sliding back towards his ear. "Really? Highly disappointing that a well-" She sighs at the touch of his mouth, his fingers, drifting off.

"Well- what? What exactly were you gonna say there?"

"Let me finish," she murmurs, taking his earlobe between her teeth.

"I thought the point was to not let either of us finish-"

"Oh, you talk a good game, Castle. But can you-"

"Let me just show you," he growls, and hikes her up off the counter, swings her around.

She wraps her legs around his hips, squeezing until he stumbles, then grins at the curse he offers into her mouth.

"Just don't wear me out too much. I wanna check out the water park if I can't do the ropes course."

* * *

He didn't remember every detail of the place, so he's stupidly happy to find that the locker rooms are all together, no separation between the men's and women's areas. It means he can back Kate into a changing room, a hand at her waist, the other closing on the doorknob-

But she laughs at him and smacks his chest, kicks him out. He's too surprised to even think of protesting.

"You get your own changing room, Castle," she commands, that note of authority to her voice that he loves. "Give me some space here."

He gives a perfunctory grumble (works as long as she can't see him grin, right?) and walks into the next stall, making quick work of his t-shirt and shorts. His swimming trunks are a pair Alexis got him for his birthday, and he's quite fond of the white monkey print over the dark blue fabric.

Kate will love them too.

When she steps out of her changing room, however, wearing a dark blue bikini that is as simple as it is lovely (how on earth did he get a woman who's sexier than any James Bond girl?), he's too busy gaping to remember to brag. Kate curls her fingers around his elbow and drags him after her, smirking.

"You've seen it all, Castle. Remember?"

"Oh, I remember alright," he says, dropping his voice to the low rumble that he knows gets to her - she admitted to it in a moment of weakness.

She glances at him over her shoulder, an eyebrow arched but the beginnings of an adorable blush spreading on her cheeks; he tries to pull her into him, but she escapes, laughing, tiptoeing ahead so she won't slip on the wet tiles.

"I want to swim," she tells him, her eyes dark and determined, keeping carefully out of his reach. He heaves a dramatic sigh, but nods; she lets him catch up with her then, even leans in to whisper, "But when we get back to the cottage, Castle?"

He swallows, his eyes on the soft curve of her neck, the dark curls throwing a gentle shadow over it.

"The trunks are coming off," she whispers with an alluring grin, showing him a glimpse of red tongue. "Monkey boy."

He can't even think of a good answer; he's too busy trying to remember how to suck oxygen into his lungs.

* * *

The water park is beautiful. They obviously tried to make it look exotic; there are trees everywhere, springing between the different pools, reaching for the sky. Their large leaves capture and reflect the sunlight, make the whole space brighter, lighter.

A large glass dome lets in light, and although Kate thinks briefly that it must be rather gloomy when the weather is grey and cloudy, right now she can't deny that it's simply gorgeous.

The space isn't crowded, merely lively, and a little girl almost crashes into Kate's legs, laughing breathlessly as she tries to escape the boy chasing after her. She murmurs "_Pardon_," with a shy, luminous smile, before she runs off again; Beckett's heart twists a little, tender and wistful and oh-

wanting.

This place is intended for families, for couples with children, and she might not - they might not be there yet, but that doesn't keep the vision from shimmering before her eyes and nudging at her heart, so sharp and tempting, beautiful. She pauses and lets herself dwell in it for a moment more - hope for the future.

"You like it?" Castle asks, sounding nervous, boyish, probably because she's stayed silent for so long.

Kate turns to him and lets him see the smile that has bloomed in her, wide and bright, before she curls a hand around his neck and lifts on her tiptoes to kiss him. Her mouth works at his gently, indulging, and she loves the slow glide of his tongue against hers, the leisurely warmth of it all.

"I love it," she whispers against his lips, her cheeks almost hurting with the grin that she cannot seem to tone down.

"Yeah?" he asks again, and even though she feels him smile back, there's true insecurity, genuine doubt in his voice.

She snatches his lower lip between her teeth in punishment, waits until he emits a muffled sound of protest before releasing him, laughing.

"That's what you get for making me say it twice, Castle," she says with a pointed look. "I love this place."

He looks reassured and pleased and excited all at once; she will never tell him how much she loves that childish energy that crackles in his eyes.

"Good," he says, taking her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. "Good. Come on then. I wanna do that "wild river" thing again. I've been dying to come back here, just so I could do the wild river. It's sooo awesome."

Kate gives him a suspicious look, but lets him drag her along; the detective in her studies their surroundings, notices the jacuzzis, the wave pool, the various water slides. Okay, she has to admit it: this place looks like crazy fun.

A squeeze of her fingers makes her look up. Castle is watching her, part boyish excitement, part tenderness; she leans in and skims her lips over his, her heart bubbling at the happy smile he offers her.

"Come on, wild man," she says. "Show me that river."


	5. Chapter 5

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

She rolls onto her back, revels in the slick slide of her body through the current, the push and pull of the cool water on her legs as she moves through the wild river.

Castle's behind her, watching her with eyes that reflect the intense blue of the water. She strokes back with her arms, stalls for a moment so that he slips up next to her, his hand brushing just above her navel.

"Not your first time in a Wild River, then," he says, then gasps as they round a bend and he's hit in the face with a spray of water.

She feels the wave crest up and over her head, closes her eyes, blows gently through her nose until there's light once more above her.

Castle's coughing wetly and loudly behind her, looking slightly more tortured than he should have any right to considering he's the one who'd demanded the river in the first place. She shakes her head at him, sliding onto her stomach for the next bend.

With a sharp crack, her elbow slams against the edge of the plastic boundary of the river. She tamps down the instinct to inhale against the sudden sting, the spindles of pain threading down to her fingers, but it's a good sting, like the shock of the cool water over her body, the sudden knock of Castle's hand into her ankle, the jostle and bump and rush of life, of life with him.

The edges of the river curve, then narrow; the current pushes harder. She backpedals once, twice, and is rewarded by the sudden slam of Castle's body into hers, all elbows and knees cracking against her bones, pushing her right beneath the surface, so that there's the churn of water and the press of his body just next to and over hers. She anchors her hands to his shoulders, not ready to breathe, staying just beneath the surface until her lungs ache and he's urgently tugging at her as they slide through the current.

She's almost sorry when she sees the look on his face after she emerges, when her eyes catch his, wild and frenzied. "Do you want me to have a heart attack, Kate?" he gasps, some combination of fear and exhilaration.

The air rushes into her lungs in a sharp burst, fills her world with a vibrant kind of color, and she can't help the laugh that gusts through her, her lungs burning with oxygen, her elbow and knee and ankle stinging from banging against Castle and the borders of the river, her head spinning from the dip and rush and curve of the now narrow chute. "Wild River a little much for you, Castle?"

Her hands are still gripping his shoulders, tight enough to bruise him, and he's having to kick awkwardly to keep his head above water without the full use of his arms, but she has no intention of letting go.

Castle stares at her, eyes exhilarated, alight. "You're a little much for me," he gasps before another wave rolls over them.

She drags herself closer to him, fighting the current, opens her mouth, lets the river jostle her into him so that her teeth scrape along a tendon in his neck. She breaks the surface of the water with her mouth still on him.

"It's fun when it's rough," she says against his throat, inhaling a little water, but it's worth it, worth it to feel his muscles constrict underneath her palms, to feel the breath shudder in his body in a way that might only be partially due to the sudden slam of his back into the edge of the river.

He looks like he's about to respond - that or he's trying not to inhale a mouthful of river again - but then there's no bottom to the river and they're shooting forward, dropping down through the air and smashing into the cold water below. The impact releases her fingers from his shoulders, but a couple quick kicks and she's on the surface, laughing, Castle appearing a breath behind her, beaming and gasping.

The current's pulling her away from the slide and she can feel Castle's eyes on her as he starts to kick with the flow. She flips onto her stomach, breathes deeply, points her hands and lets memory take over, a hard contraction of muscle that has her butterfly stroking through the water, reveling in the strong surge of her body, the power and easy grace. She swings through another stroke, then another, before she flips back around, sees Castle treading water, staring at her with that mixture of curiosity and desire that sends a curling heat fizzling through her blood.

He strokes toward her, slow but confident, stops just in front of her, standing in the shallower water. She's still on her stomach, so she flips onto her back, floats there, staring up at the broad plane of his chest, the bottom of his chin, just starting to shadow with stubble.

He tilts his head down, stares at her. "You've been holding out on me," he says, trailing a finger lightly along the outside of her thigh.

She smiles up at him. "Mystery you're never gonna solve. . ."

He hooks his index finger under the rise of her bikini, strokes just to the ridge of her hip. She can tell from the barely-suppressed spark in his eyes how pleased he is that she's quoting his words.

"I didn't realize I meant a butterflying mystery," he says.

"Middle and high school," she murmurs, arching her back, pressing her stomach up into the steady pressure of his hand.

"I pictured you more as the lacrosse type. Full contact sports, you know?"

She can tell from the look in his eyes that he's hovering on the brink between intrigued and off-balance, that he's busily mentally factoring into his concept of her the hours she's spent in the pool, twelve strokes, tuck and flip, twelve strokes, tuck and flip, on and on.

"I did lacrosse for a couple seasons, soccer too. Liked being able to win just under my own power, though. Not having everything pivot on a teammate's fumbled ball."

He smiles fondly, his eyes only a little shadowed. "I can see that."

She rolls, stands, loops her arms around his neck. "You know all the important things," she whispers against his mouth.

He huffs against her lips. "I want to know everything," he murmurs fiercely.

She nudges her nose into his, closes her eyes, slides her tongue over his lower lip. "Come on," she says, "Let's do the river again."

* * *

She's wet and bruised and aching all over, but there's a flame of heat at her hip where he nudges her into their cottage, over the threshold, and she feels better than she has in a long time.

Once again, it doesn't matter that she has no answers, that closure remains elusive, that she's soaking wet and a little messed up, because here he is, here he is, and this thing they have is so very solid.

So what if she's got to punish her body a little to keep herself on even ground?

Kate stops in the entryway, catching him when he trips into her, and guides his mouth to hers with a sudden urge for close and hot. He's too gentle, his touch reverent, his tongue stroking; she wants more, harder, but she's not sure she can take it.

"Should shower and get some sleep," he says, his mouth at hers, the words shared between their breaths.

She sighs, but he's right. She couldn't possibly tonight, even though she wants to, maybe even needs to. "Yeah. Shower with me?"

"Do you need to ask?" he laughs.

She hesitates, her hand trailing down to lace her fingers with his. "Castle. Just shower. I can't-"

"I know, Kate. I'm pretty battered myself. That wild river smacked me around."

She grins, can't quite tamp down the laugh that bubbles out at that image. "Wild river made you its bitch."

"Hey now," he growls, his hips nudging her back towards their room. "Not funny."

"True. I'm the only one that can make you-"

He claims her mouth roughly, maybe a little too aggressive for just having ridden the wild river about seven times, a little too aggressive for the bruise at her jaw from his elbow that third time or the raw place where her forearm scraped against something at the side on their sixth turn. She finally makes a noise in her throat that he feels, or hears, interprets correctly, because he lets her go with a panting breath, staring down at her.

"Maybe you should shower alone," he mutters, blinking hard.

She grins and shakes her head. "Nope. You're with me, buddy. Can't let you off the hook that easily."

"So not right. You are cruel."

"You do realize, Castle, that there are other - things - we can do? Besides-" she grins, "-going all the way?"

His tight grip on her arm propels her forward, his body at her back and making her move. She laughs again but she's tangling her hand in his, dragging him after her, looking forward to a hot shower and whatever else they can get up to.

* * *

She crawls into bed after him, hair hanging down wet in her face, his hand coming up to tuck it behind her ear, back over her shoulder. She collapses down on her stomach into the mattress with an exhausted sigh, more sore now, but good. Lying on his back, Castle echoes her sigh, his palm settling at her ass, like it's a resting place. Feels nice though.

She closes her eyes, feels her body melt into the sheets.

"Guess," he says suddenly. She doesn't open her eyes; it's still bright enough in the room that the pale glow getting through her eyelids is enough to keep her awake for a moment longer.

"Twenty-nine?"

"Nope."

"No clue," she says then, because she so doesn't care how many days/weeks/months since whatever it is he's keeping track of.

"Guessing too high."

"Oh. Then it only feels like I've been stuck with you forever?" she gets out, manages to look at him to see how he took that.

He's frowning at her. "Smart mouth."

She grins, too tired to laugh, and finds it in herself to slide an arm out from under the pillow to brush the back of her fingers along the sharp stubble at his jaw. "How 'bout twenty-five?"

"Still too high. Also? Not what I'm counting."

She lifts her head to look at him, a half-smile on her face as she studies him. Is he being gross or romantic? Hard to tell. "What then?"

"Five hours," he says with a grin.

Five hours? "Oh-kay," she draws out. "You gonna tell me?"

"Since you told me you loved me."

Oh. Oh how that curls her heart up, warm and tight, like it's finding a way to burrow inside of his. "Guess what?" she says suddenly, finding the strength to slide those last few inches to him and drape her body across his.

"What?" he murmurs, his lips finding a soft spot on her shoulder.

"Restart your count," she smiles. "I love you. Now sleep. I'm exhausted."

He might be chuckling, but she's already falling asleep.

* * *

He wakes up before she does.

It's happened more and more lately, like she's easing into it, the comfort of life together. The first weeks, he would open his eyes to an empty bed, and find her in the kitchen drinking coffee or in the shower after her morning run; but now it seems that sleeping in has grown on her too, like she's slowly gotten used to the idea that she doesn't have a job to go to in the morning.

He winces, because even the thought feels wrong.

If he knows Kate Beckett, though - if he knows her at all - then she'll find something else. She's not the kind to stay idle, not the kind to live off his money, although he would find nothing wrong with that.

But she'll find her way back, and he has to admit - she's too brilliant, too amazing a mind, a woman, for the world not to benefit from all the light, all the strength that she has to give.

It would be selfish of him to keep her all to himself. And he doesn't want to.

He wants to show her off, wants to never stop bragging about her, wants everyone to know, to realize just how incredible Kate Beckett really is. Kinda like when he's in a restaurant, tasting a delicious dish: he needs to share it with people, as many as he can, needs to see the spark in their eyes as they agree with him.

Uh. So he just compared Kate to food.

...Well, it's true that he loves to feast on her-

She moves just then, her open mouth working against his biceps, so sleepy and adorable that it derails his train of thought; his heart melts at the way she curls up against him, so small and lithe and very unlike the Detective Beckett he based Nikki Heat on.

He watches her hungrily, the slow blinking that tells him consciousness is returning, the way her tongue darts to her lips, licks them, before her eyes slide open.

It takes some time for her to focus on him, but when she does her lips part into a smile, and she hums throatily. "Hey."

"Morning, Kate."

Oh, he wishes all mornings were like this. He hopes every day begins like this, for the rest of his life. Number fifty, right? He could start it right now.

She studies him, remnants of sleep clouding her eyes, lazy and gorgeous; he pushes back a curl of dark hair, lets his hand rest over the line of her neck.

"You ready for the ropes course?" she asks with a dark grin, looking entirely too satisfied with herself.

Damn it. The ropes course. He'd kind of forgotten about it.

"Sure," he answers lightly, hoping he sounds at least twice as convinced as he feels. Only for Kate, only for Kate would he even consider dangling himself thirty feet off the ground, only suspended by a tiny little cable-

And now she's laughing at him, looking so clever and tender both, a combination he had no idea was even possible.

He opens his mouth to complain but she's already kissing him, soft lips and hot tongue, tasting like sleep and smile and Kate Beckett; he kisses back with everything he has, his fingers curling around her neck, where the skin is so warm and smooth.

"Don't worry, Castle," she whispers breathlessly against his mouth as she shifts to drape herself over him, her body meeting his in all the right places, and oh, oh she's _naked_ - "I won't let you fall," her voice promises in his ear, dark and delicious, before she starts to move.


	6. Chapter 6

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

Kate inspects the next element, fingers loosely curled around the cable tied to her harness. It's a suspended bridge, but it doesn't have any hand lines; you just have to walk from one wooden plank to the other. They seem pretty steady.

She can feel Castle vibrating with excitement at her back, so she takes a breath and she goes, striding quickly in what she has established as the best strategy to get to the next tree.

It works even better than she thought; she reaches the platform within the next twenty seconds, feels herself smirking in satisfaction.

Nice job, Beckett.

Castle whistles and then gives her a thumbs up when she looks back at him. He has a big, proud grin on his face, and although she rolls her eyes at him, she can't help feeling a surge of smug pleasure.

He follows her example, his crossing sure-footed and unhesitant, but the woman who comes after him has a lot more difficulty. She's in her forties, and she's with a group of six or seven other women, all younger, who are still having a lot of fun in the previous element.

Kate thinks maybe it's a bachelorette party, but the woman doesn't look like she's enjoying herself very much.

Castle's hand curls at her waist and her attention shifts, her focus back on him. "Hey," he says with an easy smile. "Maybe you should start with the next one, since they said we're not supposed to be more than two people on the same platform?"

Right. "Yeah. Sure. I'll go," she answers, squeezing his hand for a second as she glances back at the woman following them. The woman's problem is that she hesitates too much; hesitation breeds instability and instability creates more insecurity.

"Kate," Castle nudges gently.

"Yes. Going."

The next challenge is a cargo net, one of those webs you have to cross through as if you were Spiderman or something - hm, Castle is probably going to love it. Kate herself doesn't dislike it, but the cable burns against her palms, and she misses being able to move both her legs at once.

Still, she gets through it, is relieved when her left foot hits the platform and she can let go of the cargo net altogether.

Her breathing is a little fast, but she's in control. The High Adventure Course isn't quite as strenuous as she'd imagined, but looking at the people in their group, it's easy to understand why.

This is meant as entertainment for people who want to have fun, not a physical challenge for well-trained cops and their writer-partners.

Ex-cops. Shit.

She forgets sometimes.

She chews on her lip to make herself forget, assesses the next element with a glance. A cable to put your feet on, and then ropes of various lengths dangling from another, higher rope, that you're obviously supposed to cling to in order to cross.

Seems doable. Especially since she's tall.

She swivels back to Castle, checking on him; he's still not done with the cargo net, but that's because he's helping the forty-something woman, patiently showing her where to put her hands and feet.

Kate's chest squeezes stupidly; this is the man she loves, right there; the man who loves her. Amazing and beautiful man, and with such a big, generous heart that it still melts her a little when she thinks of it.

He's in a pretty precarious position, actually. He probably hasn't noticed because he's so intent on helping his companion, but one of his feet is hanging in the air, one of his hands is guiding the woman's, and if his other foot were to slip-

Just as the thought crosses Beckett mind's, it happens right before her eyes. Castle leans a little too far and loses his balance, his right foot skidding over the cable, unable to find purchase; he yelps in surprise and Kate cries out too, calls his name, stepping forward even though she's too late, not close enough to be of any help.

But this is a secure ropes course; of course Castle doesn't fall the 30 feet that separate them from the ground, doesn't break anything. The harness and the cable break his fall before it's even started, and he just hangs helplessly from the main cable, a couple feet under the cargo net, laughing and waving at everyone and generally making himself the center of attention until one of the instructors comes to 'rescue' him.

Beckett is probably the only one not laughing.

She moves on to the next element knowing it's ridiculous - that he was never really in danger - but that second when she saw him fall and couldn't do anything to help...

It doesn't make her laugh.

She finishes the ropes course in silence, lips pressed together even through the zip line, hating that her pleasure is ruined but unable to do the slightest thing about it.

* * *

He's mostly finished with his sandwich when he finally notices.

It's a gorgeous day, all bright sun and sharp breeze and his blood is singing with leftover adrenaline from the course, the edge of exhilaration still sharp in him. They're on the back patio of the villa, secluded and intimate, and he was just thinking it was a good day. But.

She's too quiet. She's barely eating, just shuffling her salad along the plate.

"What?" he asks abruptly, his mouth full of ciabatta and roast beef.

She shakes her head, huffs a short sigh. "Nothing," she murmurs.

He frowns, flips back through the day in his mind as he absently chews on his sandwich. When she woke in his arms, murmuring about the ropes course and then sliding her body over his, she exuded a tantalizing combination of lust and excitement that even now sends heat sizzling through his veins. It was later, then. Sometime during the ropes course.

She must see the way he's watching her, because her eyes narrow. She spears a piece of lettuce a little too forcefully.

"I thought you liked the ropes course," he says. She'd told him she had, although now, looking back, her words didn't have the verve he would have expected them to. "Were you…" he trails off. He can still be an idiot, sometimes, but even he knows better than to ask Kate Beckett if she was frightened.

She picks up on it anyway. "No," she snaps, a little too forcefully, immediately defensive.

"I thought it was really fun," he tries, going for a neutral statement that won't make her want to injure him.

"I know," she says flatly, shoving the lettuce into her mouth. At least she's eating something. He watches her silently. "You said that. Three times."

He bristles despite himself. "You're the one who wanted to do it."

She stares at him, eyes flashing. "You're serious right now," she growls.

Trails of adrenaline are still curling through him, making his pulse thump harder than it should, making his jaw clench. He hasn't done anything wrong. "What the hell, Beckett?"

She pushes up from the table abruptly, stalks away, leaving him staring after her with his mouth agape. She stops at a nearby tree, lifts her hand and rests it against the bark.

He follows without ever making the conscious decision, his feet trailing after her, drawn inexorably forward by her. He stops a foot behind her back, close enough to see the faint tremble in her hand, to hear the slight harshness to her exhales. Shit.

He steps closer, gently rests a hand on the arc of her hip. She doesn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, pressing his hand into her. For not noticing earlier. For letting her get to this point, turned away from him, shaking against a tree.

"It was when you fell," she whispers.

Oh. God. His fingers tighten on her hip. He crowds closer to her, so that her shoulder blades jut into his ribcage, so he can feel the faint vibrations shivering through her body.

She shakes her head. Her hair tickles his chin. "I just – it's not funny to me when you fall."

"The fight with the sniper," he whispers, the knowledge rolling through him in a great wave of horror. He still doesn't know everything about her moments on the roof, but he knows that she wound up clinging to a ledge, knows that she was not far from a free fall to a fast and bloody death.

How could he have possibly let her on a ropes course?

"You have a flashback?" he asks, knowing he's pushing, possibly pushing too far, unable to stop.

Her shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh. "No," she murmurs. "Not exactly. Not like that." She pauses, drags in a careful breath. "I just – I don't like to see you fall. Not when I'm too far away to help."

He bows his head, brushes her hair out of the way, rests his lips on the side of her neck. Picturing it with their positions reversed – her foot slipping, the jerk of her body as she struggles to catch herself and finds only air, him unable to do anything but hopelessly jerk toward her – he can't help but wince. He's never been clinging to the edge of a roof for his life, but he can picture her doing it all too well, and in that picture he can see every other one of her almosts - bullets and explosions and water-filled cars and too many other moments.

"It wasn't funny to me," she repeats.

"No, no," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, and then she's turning carefully so that her head is against his shoulder and her arms are circled around his back. Her mouth presses against his collarbone, warm and alive. He brings his arms around her back, squeezes her into his body, too hard, tries to wrap every one of the words he can't say into the gesture, his muscles trembling with the force of his gratitude for how very alive she is.

"I'm sorry," she says into his skin.

He closes his eyes, kneads his fingers into a knot in her spine. "I say we defied death yet again," he rumbles, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

He can feel the faint curve of her lips bowing up into a slight smile against his skin. "Do you, now."

"I do. And you know what that means, Beckett."

She lifts her head, tilts her chin up to look into him with only slightly clouded eyes. "We should go back inside the villa and have intense, we-defied-death-yet-again sex?"

He leans down, kisses the tip of her nose. "Sometimes I think you don't know me at all."

"Really." There's the slightest flash of laughter across her face, a hint of the playfulness in the tilt of her mouth.

"Yes." He brushes his lips over hers. "Who needs the villa? We have a perfectly sturdy tree right here."

* * *

The darkness flashes on her in a second, the darkness of need, and she has to clutch at his shirt to keep from arching into him.

He just - he can't say stuff like that after she's been emotionally compromised. All of her defenses are down and so of course she wants to let him have her against the tree.

Of course.

He gapes at her. "Did you say _Of course_?"

"Was that out loud?"

He sucks in a breath and immediately launches an assault on her neck, biting, soothing, sucking, hitting every spot just right to make her body vibrate with pent up arousal.

"Do you know how hot you are?"

"Do you know you talk too much?" she shoots back, letting her hips go, letting her body rock against his as he pushes her back.

"It's really not a good idea to fuck against a tree, Beckett, but in the name of-

"I was being serious. You talk too much. Use that mouth for good, Castle, not for evil."

He pulls back only long enough to flash her an appreciative, thrilled smile and then he's running his hands up her shirt to her bra and popping it open. He cups her breasts and she sucks in a breath, head scraping against the bark, opens her eyes to see the tangle of tree limbs overhead, the frighteningly-blue sky, the startled flight of a bird.

And then his mouth is on her over her shirt and his leg is sliding between her thighs and really, really, she tells herself, no one can possibly see us.

But they might.

* * *

They lounge in the hot tub that night, lazy and content, and his body is so bruised and aching that the water jets hit all the right spots - because there's not a place on him that doesn't need it.

Her hand drifts over him, curls into the crook of his half-floating arm, and then she's curling up at his side, her head resting between his shoulder and neck, and sliding her legs over his lap.

He grips the outside of her thigh to keep her close, brushes his mouth over her forehead.

He's felt this irresistible need to baby her. Ever since lunch, which ended with a wild display of arousal against a tree - _a tree_ - he's wanted gentle and slow and adoring. She lets him, which is a switch, but he'll take it.

They have a month in Paris before they go back to New York, and real life, and whatever that holds for them. She quit her job, but he thinks she'll go back - given time - and he just wants to have this month to love her without boundaries.

Without the job demanding her time, without his family walking in on them, without Black Pawn or the Precinct, without well-meaning but embarrassing friends, without conversations about whose place or how long or staying the night.

So of course, the moment it's turned tender and still and quiet between them, all he can think about are the things he doesn't want to be thinking about.

Of course.

He sighs softly and distracts himself with the heated flesh under his hand, the strong curve of her thigh meeting the flare of her waist. He dips his fingers into the edge of her bikini, scrapes his thumb along her ribs. She shifts but doesn't seek more, doesn't raise her mouth to him. Just lets him touch.

He wants to marry her.

He must startle or grow too still, because Kate's curling her hand over his shoulder and lifting her head.

"Castle?"

He nods to her question, not really an answer, not knowing what to say. If he opens his mouth, all manner of unromantic, poorly-timed crap will come out, and this isn't where and how it should be.

"You okay?" she murmurs, stroking his pec with her fingertips.

He nods again, his mouth clamped tightly on the words that bubble up, but she frowns and cups his cheek, kisses him softly, and that breaks the seal.

"Kate, I want to marry you," he murmurs into her kiss, says it again and again because she's only kissing him more, still, like he's not said it at all, and he needs an answer because he's just that stupid- "I want to marry you. I love you and I want to be your husband."

She takes in a long breath, her lips open against his, her hands stroking his cheeks as she braces herself against him in the hot tub.

"Kate, will you marry me?"**  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Bucket List in Paris**

* * *

She wants to say yes.

And it stuns her, that great burst of feeling in her chest, the spontaneous acceptance that wants out of her lips.

So she kisses him again, a hand tangling in his hair, the other brushing down his chest, a vain attempt to distract him. He catches her fingers, stills them, and she knows she's gonna have to speak, but she doesn't know, doesn't know what to say-

She should stop and think; she needs to, because there are issues to be considered, questions to be asked, where would they live and what would it mean for her job, his family, god, and his daughter isn't even here...

Still.

She wants to.

She parts her mouth against his, feels the hot wash of his breath, the dizzying knowledge that this man, this man right here, with his tender mouth and his heated eyes and the hands that drive her crazy, this man wants her for always.

He wants to spend his life with her.

"Yes," she breathes, doesn't even know what she's doing, only that it feels so right, so right.

Her voice is a strong and fragile thing at once, rough with emotion and brilliant with hope.

Castle blinks, a dazed look on his face, and oh, she just wants to kiss him again.

"Yes?" he murmurs, like he can't believe it.

Silly man. She would laugh at him, but she can't, not when everything is so tight in her chest, all wound up. She can only repeat, "Yes," her fingers moving along his jaw now, tracing the contour of his joy. "I'll be your wife, Castle."

Oh the words, the lovely words. She'll be scared later; right now there's only the thrill, the heady taste of it in her mouth, like a strong, delicious wine.

"You will?"

This time she does laugh, the sound strangled and breathless on her lips. "Trying to make me change my mind here, Rick?"

"No," he answers immediately, arms tightening around her. "No, no, no. You said it, Beckett. Too late to take it back now."

And then he's kissing her, his mouth meeting hers in an exultant, irresistible kiss that has her both grinning and darting her tongue at his. He sighs into her lips, his body soft with what feels like pleasure and relief, his flesh giving under her imperious hands; she slides a knee on the other side of him, settling on his lap, their hips kissing as she cradles him against her, his loving hands and his too-gentle heart.

Kate lets her body take the lead, brushing and rolling into him, her fingers wandering, her mouth open at his - as long as she can keep the knowledge from fully reaching her brain, as long as she can keep herself from thinking...

Oh god. She just said yes to Rick Castle.

* * *

"Mm, not in the tub," Castle decides suddenly, a long frisson of pleasure running through his body at Kate's clever touch. He winds an arm around her slim waist, slowly pushes himself off the seat, giving her time to wrap her legs around him, and then he carefully stands up.

His knees tremble but hold, his eyes sliding shut for a second at the wet heat of her mouth opening against his neck, and he takes a step, another, climbing out of the bubbling water.

She pushes her tongue into the hollow at his neck, causing a startled gasp to tangle in his throat, and he has to catch himself against the door, their bodies flush, responding to each other. So good, she feels so good.

He can't resist, has to slide a hand down between them until he finds her, can tease her, his thumb making her moan, a sound low and gorgeous that is almost his undoing.

But no-

"I want you in our bed," he murmurs, his voice dark and purposeful, and he takes away his hand, ignores her whimper of discontent.

It takes only a couple more steps and there they are, the large bed with its white sheets waiting for them; Castle almost falters in his eagerness, drops her onto the mattress with less care than he meant to. Doesn't matter, though, because she won't release her grip on his waist and he goes down with her, the two of them rolling together, her initial gasp blossoming into a beautiful laugh that dies off when he takes her mouth.

His wife, his wife; he doesn't even care how or when it happens, doesn't need anything but the bright certainty, the knowledge that she's his, will be his, wants to be his.

And he'll be hers, too. He's been hers for so long already; it won't really make any difference.

"C-Castle," she stutters, the arch of her body against his, the soft skin of her thigh against his hip.

"I love you," he murmurs back, again and again, the only thing to fit, to make sense.

But still she tries to speak, and he eases his assault on her neck, his curiosity momentarily winning out over his arousal.

"This wedding thing," she pants, and damn if that word, wedding, isn't the hottest thing he's ever heard fall from her mouth.

He hums, his tongue at her collarbone, and he can feel the hitch in her breathing, her desperate effort to keep it together.

Oh, how he loves her-

"Not gonna happen any time soon," she tells him, the words leaving her in a great rush, all huddled together. He can't help a grin, because nothing, nothing she says now can ruin his mood, unless she takes it all back.

Unless she takes her yes back.

But she won't; she's Kate Beckett, and he knows she won't.

So he's grinning.

"Okay," he whispers, his lips moving against hers now. "Long engagement. I don't mind, as long as I get to buy you a ring."

He hears her soft gasp and stills for a second, giving her a moment to adjust, to keep up with him, the whole wedding concept crystallized in that one small, but so very real object - an engagement ring.

He knows he's asking a lot. More than he thought he could ask of her right now, actually, but since it all tumbled out of his mouth in the hot tub, she's done nothing but surprise him.

Yeah. It's pretty much been that way since he's known her, huh?

So he waits on her, waits until she feels confident enough to kiss him, a long slide of her tongue around his; his hips buck instinctively even as their mouths part. "We need to talk," she says breathlessly, her skin tanned against the pillow, the dark sweep of her hair streaked with gold where the sun's kissed her.

"We'll talk," he promises, his need for her hitting him hard now, an animal unleashed. He slides a hand under her thigh, and she makes one of those lovely wanting sounds that he wants to drink from her lips. "I didn't even mean to ask you, Kate," he says to reassure her. "I don't have a ring; I don't have anything. We'll do it your way, love."

He bows to kiss the supple stretch of her abdomen, his fingers kneading her skin, and feels her shiver.

His mouth trails down, and down, and she arches, a wordless cry on her lips.

"Your way," he repeats quietly.

And then he proceeds to unmake her.

* * *

"What does that mean, anyway?" she growls at him, even as he sleeps. "My way."

She can't sleep.

She agreed to marry him. She wants to marry him; it wasn't like she was coerced. Wasn't like she hasn't thought of it before, number fifty on his list. And she can picture it, which was always her downfall before - just not seeing any other relationship lasting. She can see this one lasting.

She can't sleep.

Kate sighs and shifts up in bed, leaning against the headboard. His arm loosens but still drapes over her thighs, warm and heavy. He's on his stomach, face mashed into the pillow, hair hanging in his eyes. He's a beautiful man; he really is, and she doesn't know anymore if it's because all she sees is his amazing heart, or if it's that charm that knocked the breath out of her when she first met him, or something else.

He lets out a long sigh, his arm squeezing just a little, and she lifts her hand and scrapes it through his hair, softly, gently, trails her fingertips along the shell of his ear.

Forever.

She has him forever.

He's made her promises before, broken and kept; he's said the words and done the actions; he's shown up. Stood at her side, sometimes not so silent in his objections, but there. Present, good or bad.

She's not restless about him, not at all concerned about the promises they'll make to each other - or how they'll keep them, how they'll get broken. Life happens; they fight, they damage each other, they come back together and hopefully stronger.

She's restless about herself.

"You should go back to the 12th," he says suddenly, startling her from the contemplation of the pink line of his ear. His eyes open slowly; she feels the tension in his arm as he curls it tighter at her legs.

"I should, huh," she says, non-committal.

"Yeah."

"Didn't know you were awake."

"Not sure when it happened either. Were you licking my eyebrow?"

She laughs. "No. That was a dream, Castle."

He sighs lustily. "It sure was."

She draws a knee up a little, makes his arm come in closer. He shifts onto his side but tugs on her, tries to make her lie down with him.

"Your eyebrow?" she murmurs, going, falling into the mattress again. "Really, Castle?"

"Try it and see."

His eyes are slipping closed like he'll fall asleep again, so she darts in and bites the edge of his eyebrow, touches her tongue to the skin just above his eyelid.

He jerks against her and she laughs, feels his arm tighten, the growl in his chest.

"Hm, look at that," she says, stroking a hand down his back.

"That's. . .entirely not fair. I didn't even know about that one."

"It came to you in a dream?"

"I guess so. Like divine revelation. Is that sacrilege?"

"I don't care. If it makes you moan-"

In a sudden and violent move, he's got his mouth on hers, teeth sharp, sucking at her tongue, and she feels her body arching towards his, needing him close.

But then he breaks off with a rough noise, his mouth close to hers, his breath hot and moist over her lips. She blinks in the darkness, watches his eyes drinking her in, studies the pores in his skin, the flare of his nose, the deep creases near his mouth. Beautiful man.

"We can leave tomorrow, Kate. If you need it. Go back."

She shakes her head on the pillow because she knows exactly why he's saying it, and how he knows her. But.

"I want to celebrate my engagement in Paris," she whispers, watches his face soften. His fingers come to her cheeks, stroke around her eyes.

"Then we'll go home. And you'll go back to work."

"And then. . ." She shrugs at him, because how can it be that simple?

"You fight back, Kate. You don't hide in Paris; you don't let a fall on a ropes course get to you. You never give up. It's part of what I love about you, so don't stop now."

She stares up at him and then nods once; she won't cry, she won't - he's just - they'll fight later. She knows they will. Something in a case, something about the job will put them on opposite sides. But now, in this moment, he's giving something back to her as equally as precious as what she gave him tonight.

He's saying yes to her too.

"When we get home, I'll go back to work," she says finally.

And then he dips his head and takes her mouth in a kiss that seals all their promises.**  
**

* * *

_fini_


End file.
